


Touch

by beaubete



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, happy het smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie doubts, and Bel corrects him of his misconceptions.  Post 02x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> A snippet of Freddie/Bel porn, to cheer myself up after morose thoughts on The Hour and the Season 3 that will never happen.

She traces her fingertips reverently over his bruised and slashed skin, touches raised scars and grins at him as though she can't believe it all belongs to her.  His body's a mangled wasteland, but it all belongs to her.

“Moneypenny,” he groans; her skirt is hitched high around her thighs and the clasps of her stockings are digging perfectly round bruises into his legs where she straddles him, but his hands won't settle, won't stay still.  There's too much of her to touch, and he wants to touch it all before she changes her mind; he plucks at the tops of her stockings, the hem of her skirt, the buttons on her blouse, but only the places she's put his hands before.  Never under the fabric, never anywhere salacious.  He's nearly chaste, or as chaste as he can be with her rocking enthusiastically on his lap until his cockstand is solid and nearly aching.  Bel tips her head back and gasps, and he watches her lips part, her throat vibrate as she releases the sound.

She makes breathy little sounds, “Ah!  Ah!  Ah!” in time with her rocking, and he can feel the damp of her seeping into his trousers.  It's irrefutable proof she's enjoying herself, as is the thick smell of her on the air and the way her thighs squeeze him as she thrusts.

“Freddie,” she whimpers.  “Oh, Freddie.”  

He wants to know what to say here, wonders what lovewords Hector whispered in her ear as they did this.  What would Clark Gable do? he wants to know.  What would Cole Porter say?  But he's not smooth, not debonair, just Freddie Lyon of tatty old Notting Hill, and all that comes out when he opens his mouth is “yes” and “please”.  A lot of “please”, fingers curling on the bare skin he's allowed to touch with his brow crumpling because he doesn't dare take more than she'll offer him, because he knows she can take it all away at a whim.  She slows, stops.

“Freddie?”

He tries not to wince.

“Freddie?  Am I hurting you?  I knew it; I knew I should have—Freddie?”  She sounds so concerned that he opens his eyes, meets her head on—and the stark winter-blue of her eyes is still startling, still surprising with their clarity, sharp and cutting even when they're soft and sweet—and she touches his face.

“I'm fine, Moneypenny.  No need to stop on my account,” he bluffs, and she frowns.  

“If you're hurt,” she starts, and he shakes his head vehemently.  Still, she slides her leg over, shifts off of him, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight.  He's blown his chance, his only blasted chance, and—“Freddie?” she asks again, her voice soft.

“I promise I'm not hurt, Bel.  I promise.  Please continue,” he pleads.

“There'll be other times, Freddie,” she scolds, voice lilting in a tease.  “If you're not feeling well—”

“There will,” he asks, deadpan and bitter, and her hands still on the damp placket of his trousers.

“Of course there will.  Don't be such a dramatic swot.  You're not dying,” she says briskly, and he can hear the _anymore_ that goes unspoken.  He's still hard near her hand; it might be physically impossible to go soft so near her touch, he thinks.

“You don't have to pretend,” he tells her.

“Pretend?”

“Pretend you'll—” 

She sits back.  He can feel her do it, despite the stars sparking behind his clenched lids.  “Frederick Lyon, what are you being ridiculous about now?” she demands.

“I—” he says, and he doesn't quite want to say it.  He wants her to know, to already know his insecurities the way he knows she doesn't like wearing glasses and the way he knows she never wanted her bankers to call her back.  Her fingers are cool, brushing against the skin of his stomach where his clothes have been mussed and pushed away; he cracks an eye to look up at her and she smiles.

“Freddie.  Let me spell this out for you, and very clearly so you hear precisely what I am saying.  I'll use short words so you can't misconstrue the meaning, either.

“I want,” she says, reaching down to grasp at his cock in a way that makes him whine in the back of his throat, “this.  I want all the rest of you, too, but while you're apparently willing to accept that I can want the cocky attitude and the dashing wit and the smart mouth, you seem unable to understand that I want,” she punctuates the empty space with a squeeze.  “Honestly.  I thought you were smart, Freddie.  Observant.  Apparently not.”

“No?” he manages, strangled.

“No.  Because,” she says, and her grin is naughty.  She takes his hand, guides it under her skirt, and he nearly goes cross-eyed when he feels her knickers wet and sticking beneath his fingertips.  Bel makes a breathy sound and keeps guiding, nudging the slick nylon out of the way using his hand, and.

“God.”  She's so wet.  He's absolutely agonized now, cock as hard as it's ever been and raising a thick line against the seam of his trousers.

“Does this feel like I don't want you, Freddie?” she whispers against his ear, and it's enough.  It's finally enough; he rolls them, drops his hand between her legs and laughs as she shivers her knickers up her thighs and down her calves.  He's got himself out and at the edge of her before his mind catches up to his body; he freezes.

“Do you?  Do you really?” he asks, and even in his own voice he can hear the wonder, the child on Christmas day who'd expected nothing but an orange and a reminder that good boys weren't greedy waking up to everything he'd always wanted under the tree.  Her face goes soft and her legs curl, and he's inside her before she lets him have another doubt.

“Yes,” she says with a sweet sigh, and when her fingers push back his fringe, eyes searching his face as if committing it to memory, he realizes he might not be the only one who wants this to last.


End file.
